


In the Bleak Midwinter

by A_Farnese



Series: Penumbra- Missing Scenes [6]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthurian, Conflicted Morgana, Isle of the Blessed, Morgana - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23070778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Farnese/pseuds/A_Farnese
Summary: After an unsettling journey to Rheged, Morgana ruminates on her life on the Isle of the Blessed, the gifts she has been given, and what the future could hold.Set after 'A Song for Midwinter'
Relationships: Accolon (Arthurian) & Morgana (Merlin)
Series: Penumbra- Missing Scenes [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/228677
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	In the Bleak Midwinter

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: 'Merlin' and its characters are not mine. No money is being made from this.

After paying the ferrymen, Morgana led her horse onto dry land, stared up at the broken fortress of the Isle of Blessed, and breathed a sigh of relief. She could let down her guard now and simply be, without catching sight of someone watching her at every turn; in courtyards and halls, while speaking with Accolon, or in the bath. There were no secrets in Rheged, only eyes staring back at her, watching, waiting for her to make a misstep, say the wrong word, or look at their king just so. The weight of all that regard had been a heavy load to bear, and she was glad to have left. Magic sped her home, even with the weight of a new horse pulling at her thoughts.

The horse…

It was a glossy black beast with a white star between its eyes; tall, with fine lines and a flowing mane and tail. It was showy. The sort of horse a king might ride to impress the common folk, but not one he would ride to war. It was too nervous for that. Accolon had given it to her to distract her from her unease, and it had. For a little while.

But if he thought that a woman could be forever distracted from her anger by a pretty gift, he was mistaken.

He had summoned her to Rheged to witness the signing of a treaty between his father, King Urien, and a Saxon war leader, Theoderic. She had answered his call because she imagined this was a good thing- a means to an end that would bring down Arthur and put her on the throne of Camelot. The Saxons had brought their priests, none of whom were of the new religion: a lithe young blonde woman, a one-eyed giant of a man, and a darkly handsome youth man with icy blue eyes. They had magic, just as she did.

And yet. Something about it unsettled her, a feeling in her belly that no spell or herb could ease, that left her wakeful at night and restless by day. A feeling that no reassurance of Accolon’s could dispel.

She had turned to the Goddess for answers, scrying in a silver basin of water and looking to the stars on Midwinter’s night. No answers had come to her, no whisperings from the Goddess to set her mind at ease. There had only been the sound of a faraway wind whispering in the trees, leaving her to curse the limits of even her great power.

When Urien signed his name to Theoderic’s treaty, Morgana had not heard the warriors’ cheers rising in the hall. She had felt as though someone had stopped up her ears with wax while far away there was the harsh cry of a raven. She would have sworn it was mocking her.

After that, when she and Accolon were alone, she warned him against trusting the Saxons. “They do not follow our gods. They have no reason to keep their word,” she had said. He laughed and assured her all would be well, before giving her the horse and telling her to go home, as though she were a little girl whose braids he could tug before ordering her to bed. Too tired and unsettled to refuse him, she had taken the horse and traveled west. Toward the Isle of the Blessed. Toward home.

She stopped, her head tilting as she considered her thoughts. She had called the Isle of the Blessed ‘home’. Not Tintagel. Not Camelot. The Isle.

It felt right. Something within her settled, easing the tension in her shoulders. “Home,” she whispered. The wind caught her words and whipped them toward the ragged battlements and crumbling outer walls. A small smile tugged at her lips, and she led the horse forward, delicately stepping around the little tide pools on the beach.

“My Lady!”

Morgana scanned the beach for the source of the voice and finally spotted Yver emerging from a low doorway. Little Yvaine was with him, and even from this distance, Morgana could see her face light up. The girl freed her hand from Yver’s grasp and dashed forward, heedless of the sand, wind, and clinging mist. “Lady Morgana!” she cried and flung herself at the sorceress, wrapping her thin arms around her in a hug so tight Morgana thought her ribs might crack. “You’re back! I was worried about you.”

Morgana’s smile widened as she brushed the girl’s hair out of her face. “Of course I came back. I just went to see Accolon.”

Yvaine scrunched up her nose at Accolon’s name, but her eyes brightened again when she looked up at the horse. “He’s beautiful! Is he yours?”

“He is. Accolon gave him to me.”

Yver finally reached them, eyeing the horse with an unappreciative expression. “As a bribe or an apology?”

Her answering laugh was edged with bitterness. “A little bit of both, I think.”

“He’ll need a lot of feed, My Lady,” Yver grumbled.

“I know. But I wasn’t about to leave him on the shore for the… ferrymen,” Morgana said. She took Yvaine’s hand and hurried for the main gate. The girl’s hand was cold and she had no gloves.

“They’re still there?” That brought a chuckle to Yver’s lips.

“Yes. Balin and Balan.” Arthur’s men, knights sent to spy upon the Isle and tell the king who was coming and who was going. They might be dressed as peasants with dirt on their faces and sand crusted on their boots, but they couldn’t hide who they were. Peasant men wouldn’t look a noblewoman in the eye, nor would they have swords close to hand-- especially badly hidden ones. Peasant men wouldn’t spend precious energy on endless, pointless banter in the middle of winter.

She had thought of sending one of their heads back to Camelot as a warning, but what would be the point? What had they seen? A few hundred desperate peasants hauling their meager possessions to the broken shelter of the Isle, paying their passage with a few handfuls of grain or couple of eggs? Even Uther would have been hard-pressed to find a threat there.

So she spared the knights, let them watch her people repair the crumbling walls and build enough shelter to see them through the winter. They could tell Arthur how many sheep grazed on the sparse patches of dead grass and the seaweed that washed up when the tide went down, or report on the fish the handful of fisherman pulled out of the lake when the weather was calm. They could tell Arthur that she, too, had suffered from the cold and the wind and known hungry days with her people and that these experiences brought her closer to them than he would ever know.

“Does he have a name?” Yvaine broke through her maunderings.

“What?”

“The horse. Does he have a name?”

“No. If he did, Accolon didn’t tell me what it was.”

“Hm.” Yvaine wrinkled her nose again. “Horses should all have names, just like people.”

“What would you call him?” Morgana asked.

The girl spun about to look up at the horse, a finger on her lips as she regarded it, looking it up and down and up again. Finally, she said, "Tywyll. Because he's dark, but not like a shadow. Shadows steal the light, and he's shiny."

"In the old tongue?" Morgana raised her eyebrows, glancing up at Yver, who stared back as though promising to explain later. She spoke little of her people’s old language, and her heart ached for her lack of knowledge. "It’s a lovely name for a horse like this. Perhaps you can learn to ride him when you're a little older. But first, we need to find a place for him to live." There were only a few other horses on the Isle- a few plow horses to till the fields in the spring. They were crowded in the enclosure with the sheep.

"We can put him in with the goats. They won't bother him. I know they won't," Yvaine said with perfect confidence. Then she stopped in the middle of the narrow road, suddenly shy. "I have a gift for you, Lady Morgana. It's not as nice as a horse, though. It's little."

"What is it?" Morgana did not have to feign interest. What gift could she have, given the scarcity of everything?

Yvaine dug into a pocket and with both hands, she held up a narrow woven band as though it were the most precious thing in the world. Morgana gingerly took it, holding it up to the meager light. Threads of half a dozen muted shades of blue and gray were knotted together to form a simple pattern of faded colors. A trio of polished wood beads rested in the center of the band. “Three beads for the Goddess?”

Yvaine nodded. “Do- do you like it?” she asked, her voice small and filled with trepidation.

“I do like it. I’ll wear it all the time so when I leave, I’ll have something to remind me of home.” There was that word again. Home. Her eyes stung. She told herself it was because of the mist. “Could you put it on me?”

With a grin that could light up the rest of winter, Yvaine wrapped the band around Morgana’s wrist, fussing until it was tight enough, but not too tight, before tying a neat knot. Then her eyes flashed with a faint hint of gold and the loose ends neatly wove themselves around each other.

“You’ve been practicing! Well done,” Morgana said and tucked a lock of hair behind the girl’s ear. “My first spells weren’t so precise. Yver must have been helping you.”

“As well as I can, My Lady.” A hint of exasperation colored his voice. How often had the girl stretched her teacher’s patience to its breaking point? “Now you should run home to your father, Yvaine. He’ll be wondering where you are.”

Yvaine slouched and made an unhappy face. “Welcome home, Lady Morgana,” she said, then bobbed a curtsey and hurried away.

The light seemed to fail as the girl hurried away. Morgana ran her fingers over the little wood beads in the bracelet. As simple as the gift had been, she already prized it more than anything else she owned. Who else but Yvaine would think of her with affection while she was far away? Not Yver, whose work doubled when she was gone, and not the people, who looked to her for leadership, not friendship. And Accolon? Did he think of her at all when she left? Or did he turn away after waving good-bye to her and give his smiles to the next pretty face he saw?

Morgana set her jaw and tugged her sleeve over the bracelet before grabbing Tywyll’s lead and stalking down the road.

“Is something troubling you, My Lady?” Yver hurried to catch up with her, his visage composed as ever.

She stopped. Tywill snorted and danced nervously about, forcing her to release her white-knuckled grip on the lead. She patted his shoulder in apology, and he snuffled her hair in return.

“Urien signed a treaty with that Saxon, Theoderic. It gives them safe passage along the coasts and rivers of Rheged. Their warbands can go wherever they want as long as they don’t raid within Rheged’s borders. And Theoderic can bring as many of his people here as he wants. They have free reign within Rheged, and Urien’s blessing to raid outside his borders.” Morgana wanted to shout, but she kept her voice low enough that it would not carry far in the wind. “And Urien is meant to marry Theoderic’s daughter, Rowena. She’s half his age and some sort of priestess.”

“The Saxons are pagans, just as we are. I don’t see the problem.”

Morgana rounded on him. “They might not believe in the new religion, but they are not our friends, Yver. Their gods are strange to my eyes, and I do not trust them. The Goddess does not trust them. When Urien signed the treaty, I could hear them laughing. At me. At the Goddess. They bring warriors to our shores, and what do we have to defend ourselves? Farmers and quarrymen. A blacksmith and some shepherds. Old women and a handful of children. If the Saxons overrun the Five Kingdoms, how will we defend against them?”

“We could seek the mists. Only those of the old religion can find the way there. We would have peace.”

“Why? So we can quietly dwindle to nothing while the rest of the world forgets us? While the Saxons infest our land like a plague and everyone forgets the old gods? I’d rather die fighting than live in the shadows and be forgotten.” Morgana stood straight and tall, her shoulders squared. “You may seek the mists, Yver, but I will remain here. I have fallen back too many times and lost too much to run and hide like a meek little girl.”

Yver had stepped back a pace, seeming to shrink away from her words. Then he straightened and a spark came back into his eyes. “Then I will remain at your side. I am tired of running, too.”

She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “I fear we may be alone now. Rheged may no longer be our friend. If what I fear comes to pass, we will have no allies. We can’t go on as we have been. The world is changing. If we're going to survive, we must change with it.”


End file.
